there's a reason i haven't written in so long. i want to tell you the torturous, heartbreaking story of how i was kidnapped and caged in a damp concrete basement, forced to listen to christina aguilera's christmas cd on repeat and fed nothing but bacon fat and kernels of rice until the dawn of my spectacular rescue by an unusually even-tempered duck-billed platypus. but i'd be lying.
the truth is that i just lost the will to write. the last two months in kenya were a blur, and as i was scrambling to get my affairs in order, writing a blog post or two didn't really cross my mind. i suppose it would have provided me with a sense of closure that i never really got otherwise, a eulogy to myself in some respects. i really feel - now so much more than i did at the time - as if a part of me died then. it has taken a long time for my soul to regrow the me i left behind. it all happened so fast, the two-year band-aid holding my life together was ripped off and my heart spilled a pint of blood onto the dull metal floor of nairobi matatu #23.
and now i'm back. mostly. i feel like i've been sitting in a doctor's waiting room for the last 11 months, idly reading old Popular Science issues to pass the time, and the secretary has finally come back from her lunch break and is beckoning me to her little glass window. progress. behind the closed wood-panel door i hear a drill revving. this could be painful. (but i'm ready for anything at this point.)